


sportstar

by catarinquar



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Sex, Sports, msr and all-american games and other sports from s2 through post-s9
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 05:27:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16278584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catarinquar/pseuds/catarinquar
Summary: “Say what you will about the upper-class kids on the Vineyard, Scully, but we were damn good at pick-up games.” He shrugs, “if there was a ball, there was a game.”-s2 through post-s9. all of mulder's sports and one sport that is definitely not his.





	sportstar

**Author's Note:**

> in answer to a prompt from @frangipanidownunder on tumblr (HC: Scully finds the one sport that Mulder is not good at.)

It hadn’t quite occurred to her at that time in the car where he'd said it, _Vikings versus Redskins. You and me, Scully_ , but it does now; that they’d come all the way out there for the normalcy of - oh, of a stadium date.

Instead he got stuck with a glimpse on a tiny, flimsy television and she - she got a date with the Devil.

Then almost a year ago, she’d insisted it in her rusty German, _Ich habe keine Unruhe._ But Schnauz predicted the truth after all, and months before Betts at that: there’s another Devil pressing it’s way into her brain now, and a Mulder claiming her space and her time and her pity. Alternatively, treating her to soup, crackers, Kleenex; the unholy trinity.

“Football really _is_ your game, too, huh?”

Princess Diana died last night and Scully has suffered through hours of coverage sitting wrapped up in the Navajo blanket on his couch, but now the Redskins are winning the first game of the season and Mulder is grinning from ear to ear. She can give him this.

There’s pure joy and solemnity and a _thanks for being here_ when he looks at her and says, “yeah, Scully. Football’s my game, too.”

“Why, though? I mean, I know why the baseball…” she trails off, thinking of a field and _smell that, eau de ball_. Of Samantha and later on that bench, the little _Uber-Scullies._

“I played football in high school for awhile, actually,” and she could swear he blushes, “but then the coach told me I was just _too lanky_.”

She manages to contain her laugh. “Hence the basketball?”

“No, hence volleyball, if you can believe it, but only until dad said it was for wusses,” he admits. “ _Then_ basketball, where the coach told me I was _tall_.” On the television, the crowd erupts and he snaps back.

-

If someone had asked her three hours ago, or three days ago or three years ago or back when she first walked into the basement office, back when he'd first flashed her that wicked smile he's brandishing now though there'd been less of a glimmer in his eyes, then - if someone had asked her before _now_ , she would have said that _no, baseball practice is not a birthday present, and it is_ not _a date_.

It’s April, and baseball practice is a date.

It is when he sends the kid home, says, “come on, Scully, we're going for a drink.”

And it had been the moment he'd thrown the bat over his shoulder, said, _get over here, Scully_.

They take a cab together and he follows her to her door. Like you do after a date. Fuzzy with alcohol and dizzy on him, she gives up on fumbling with the lock to her apartment building; tugs at the collar of his baseball jersey until he leans down with a giddy goodbye kiss.

“I take it I've wooed you well,” he murmurs.

She can't keep her balance to go up on tiptoes again, so she settles for a nip on his chin. “Very… very… well.”

The cab honks on the street behind him, breaking the spell of this ridiculous teenaged magic.

-

In October she is sleepy with hormone treatments, warm with love; her feet in his lap. Fridays used to be reserved for JAMA and a good red, but when his thumb digs into her arch like that it seems a fair trade. She stretches on the couch and purrs.

“Scully?”

“Hm?”

“Do you mind if I catch a game?” he asks, and even after all these weeks, after he's taken his own post-game showers in her bathroom, has been in her bed, in _her;_ after he’s heard her mind and she's asked him to father her child - he still seems almost shy to be here on her couch on a Friday evening. “It's, uhm… the Knicks are playing.”

She _has_ always given him a hard time for stealing her away on a case over the weekend, but God, her man needs love. “No, go ahead. Just as long as you keep doing - ahh - _that_.”

He chuckles, gives her big toe a gentle tug. “Massage today, full pedicure tomorrow.”

“Sounds wonderful.” Saturday is for bubble baths, and this time Mulder will be getting in the tub with her. She’ll make sure of that.

She doses off to the sounds of excited commentators and spectators, sneakers skidding on hardwood floor, the ball bouncing against backboards. Mulder tenses and swears under his breath ever so often, but he keeps the volume low and never forgets her little feet.

-

It started with _do you have plans for your birthday, Scully?_ over expense reports. She did; dinner with her mom whom she hadn’t - hasn’t - seen since before Donnie Pfaster. Since before the last round of IVF failed. It’s not as if she’d liked the way he said it, _San Diego_ \- but she let him steal her away on Tuesday morning and promised her mom she’d be coming to church on Sunday.

They went out for her birthday last night, but other than that they’ve been staying on this beach across the road from their hotel, and that’s what she’s got planned until Saturday, too.

Even for sunny southern California, the February weather is spectacular. She's coated in waterproof SPF 50 and only comes out of the water in the late afternoon hours when the sun is setting and the beach is silent save for the sound of the waves; sidles up to snuggle with him on their towels. Not a word she says, but he looks and looks at her fading bruises and  means it still; _you are… so beautiful, Scully. My little mermaid_. She wonders if he knows the brutality of the original fairy tale, but surely he must.

His little mermaid; she gets him all sticky with her saltwater hair and tears.

Out on deep waters that seemed safer to her but made him finicky even as she twined her arms around his shoulders and nipped at his jaw, she’d teased him, “I thought you used to swim every morning?”

“That was laps in a nice, well-lit, chlorinated pool, Scully! Saltwater is sticky. And itchy. And it hurts my eyes,” he’d whined. She’d kissed him one last time then and sent him up to a pick-up game of beach soccer with a group of young men. Boys, really. She’d dived under again.

“I'm sorry for the things we can't have, Scully,” he whispers into her neck now, and she no longer bristles at the _we;_ she knows he hurts as much as she does. “When Emily - I thought I’d - that I’d be around, even if it was only to teach her basket. Or if she wasn’t tall enough,” he says, voice breaking on a laugh-like huff, “we could go for softball. Little League games, huh?”

She trembles and nods against him, claws at his back. “We would have.” _We would have had that_. “I’d like - on Saturday, before we go home, I’d like to go - to go see the -”

“I know, Scully. I know.”

-

In May she’s got her feet back in his lap, his couch this time, contemplating this thing they’ve carved out for themselves since last year. His eyes are glued to the television where the Orioles are beating the Mariners. She’s not sure where the interest is; neither _should_ be his favourite team. Really, she’s inclined to laugh at that obsession with sports, but her lover’s enthusiasm for these conventional, generic, so damn _all-American_ games - is endearing.

Partner, friend, lover.

Daniel and Jack had both been old-fashioned and conservative, while she’d been young, susceptible, and eager to please. At least Ethan had been more attentive.

Mulder - is adventurous. They’ve made love in both of their beds and fucked most everywhere else in both of their apartments. Attentive, then… doesn’t even begin to cover it. He’s ravenous, for one, but she’s figured him out, too: it’s a game, getting her to come at least twice for every single time he does, and of course it would be. Oral fixation aside, he’s still intense, passionate, and committed to his goals.

In bed, naked and out of breath on Saturday evening during their first weekend _after_ , she’d joked, _stamina, thy name is Mulder._ He’d groaned, rolled on top of her again to capture her mouth and paw at her breasts.

Sex is just another sport he excels at.

Baseball, basketball, football. Volleyball, _if you can believe it_. Soccer in a pinch; his _mates_ at Oxford trained him well. He runs, visits the shooting range more than strictly necessary, swims laps in nice, well-lit, chlorinated pools.

She pokes him with her toes. “Why are you such a sports-person, Mulder?”

He seems to consider before answering. “Say what you will about the upper-class kids on the Vineyard, Scully, but we were damn good at pick-up games.” He shrugs, “if there was a ball, there was a game.”

“Hm. Must have been nice.” _Until_ , of course.

“Yeah, it was… you never played games? Base-housing and all, there must have been lots of kids around?”

“Of course we played _games_. Tag. Melissa and I had roller skates. We just didn’t play _sports_.” She tries not to sound indignated; it’s not as if there’s a reason to feel it.

He turns to look at her, long enough that she squirms. “Roller skates, huh. What about your brothers, though?”

“Well, all of the boys would have improvised and strongly discouraged baseball games out on the street, but it’s not as if Bill has actually _played_ baseball since he was a high school junior. Tossing balls at Matthew doesn’t count.” She flexes her feet, “he makes sure to watch the Super Bowl, but he’s not actually - physically engaged the way you are.”

Just then, Mulder’s head drops backwards to rest on the back of the couch. “Physically engaged, huh,” he breathes.

“Huh?”

“Scully, your _feet_ ,” he groans, and God, she realises she must have been nudging his cock all this time.

“Oh, I’m _so_ sorry about that,” she deadpans and sits up to straddle his lap. She isn’t, though; of all of Mulder’s sports, this is her favourite.

-

It’s during their second winter in the house that she finally finds it.

“We’ve got a frozen lake out there, Mulder, that’s - _oh_ \- not an opportunity you can just _miss_.” She tries to be firm, but it’s hard when - God, _he’s_ hard against the small of her back - when he’s working her like that. Thumb, two fingers.

“It’s cold. Freezing,” he insists and nips at her earlobe. “Wanna stay in here where it’s warm… and soft… and _Scully_.”

Oh, no, no, no, she can’t let him do this, she’ll never get out. She wants to take advantage of the cold and snow that blizzard has brought; this will have to wait. She pushes his hand away. “You’re a sad excuse for a Yankee, Mulder. _No_ , enough with that,” she chides and pushes him away again, “you’ll have so much more to look forward to, you know.”

His hand finds its way up to her breasts instead and he latches onto her neck, nibbling. “I will? Promise?”

“Yeah, I’m - _oh_ , that’s - scout’s honour. We’ll come back in here and then I’ll stay in bed with you all day, every single day, until the roads are cleared again and I can get back to work, but _today_ I want to go ice skating.”

He lets her go and raises himself up on his elbow behind her, then. “Ice skating, Scully?”

“ _Yes_ , ice skating. The lake is frozen, it’ll be fun.”

“But ice _skating?_   We don’t have ice skates.”

“Yes, we do. Mom gave us each a pair for Christmas last year and you laughed because you thought we’d never get to use them. But I’m telling you,” she insists and sits up, whipping down the covers just to hear him yelp when the cold air hits, “we’re going ice skating.”

His continued reluctance to get dressed even after he rolls out of bed should perhaps clue her in; she hears him mumbling about weak ankles at his age, but finally he follows her down to the lake and puts on his skates without complaint. Gets up, steps out, stands very, very still while he glides a few feet out on the lake.

“Mulder?”

“Damn them,” he mutters, and she skates out in front of him to stare, perplexed.

“Damn who?”

“Ah, hell,” he hisses and brings his hands up in front of his face, muffling his voice. “The Gunmen, Scully. The Gunmen could ice skate. Goddamn Richard _Langly_ could ice skate!”

Oh no. They never watched NHL, did they. Ice hockey; not his game. Possibly just the one sport he can’t do. It’s not as if she’s a proficient skater herself, but Melissa’s friend had a pair of inlines all those years ago, and the technique is the same. It’s so _simple_ , she has to try hard not to laugh. “Mulder, look at me. Can you not skate?”

“Nope.” He drops his hands, “can we go back in now?”

“Absolutely not. How come you haven’t learned to ice skate?” she starts out, incredulous. “With those New England winters, there must have been frozen ponds everywhere where you could -”

“ _Sad excuse for a Yankee_ , Scully. You just said it,” he reminds her, but even he can’t keep the humor out of his voice.

“My God, Mulder,” she giggles and leans in to kiss him, careful not to send him on his ass. “I’m going to teach you how to ice skate. And next year,” another kiss, “we’re playing hockey.”

**Author's Note:**

> say hi on [tumblr](https://catarinquar.tumblr.com)!


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